Lake News (20 page)

“When someone else's lies tore my whole life apart!”

“You should have been married,” Maida insisted, but the flatness in her voice said she was done with the argument. “I take it you're staying at Mother's?”

Lily didn't bother to say that the cottage was legally hers. Tired, she simply nodded.

“For how long?”

“I don't know.”

“You'll lead them here, you know.”

“Not if you don't let it out. Will Hannah?”

“No.”

“She'll tell Rose,” Lily feared. “Rose will tell Art. Art will tell his mother, and she'll spread it around the mill.” It wasn't paranoia on Lily's part, but reality. Lake Henry just worked that way.

But Maida insisted, “Hannah won't tell Rose. She doesn't tell Rose anything. I'd worry about other people who notice that you're at Mother's. Word will spread that way, and the media will come, sure as day. Is that fair to us?”

“Where else can I
go?”

Maida threw up a hand, upset again. “Well, I don't know. All I know is that I don't want them here. You don't want them looking at you for three years? Why should we have them looking at us for three
weeks?
They'll be nosing around even worse than they've already done, and that isn't fair. You aren't the only one involved here, Lily. Leading them back here—it just goes on and on. Why are you doing this to me? What do you
want
from me?”

Lily lost it then. Tears sprang to her eyes. Years of yearning loosened her tongue. “Support,” she cried. “Sympathy. Compassion. Welcome. This is my home, and you're my mother. Why can't you give me those things?” She might have stopped there, but after the emotional battering of the last few days, her defenses were down. “What did I do—what did I
ever
do to offend you so much? People like me, Mom. I'm a nn-nice person.
I have friends who like me, colleagues who like me, students who like me, even a Cardinal who likes me and thinks I'm someone ww-worthy of calling his friend. Why can't
you?”

Maida looked taken aback, but Lily couldn't stop. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but long-pent-up thoughts kept the words pouring out. “My stutter embarrassed you. It said that I wasn't perfect, one of your children wasn't perfect. But did I
ask
to ss-stutter? Do you think I
like
doing it? I made one mm-mistake—
one
mistake, with Donny Kipling. Have I burdened you since then? Have I asked anything of you? No. But now I'm asking for understanding. Is that so much? Do you think I
wanted
any of this to happen? I wake up nights shaking with fury”—she shook with it now—“because I worked
so hard
to build a good ll-life, and they've taken it away, and
I don't know why!
I don't know ww-why Terry Sullivan did this to me, or why the
Post
went along with it, and I don't know why my own mother can't ff-feel for
me
for a change!”

Whirling around, she stormed from the house.

Lily cried all the way home, alternately furious at Maida's insensitivity and ashamed of her own outburst. She parked the car without bothering to turn it around, half wishing she
would
find a media person skulking in the woods. She would take him on. She was in a fighting mood. But no one jumped out as she stalked down to the lake. Anger carried her right out onto the old wood dock, where she sat herself down, daring Lake Henry to see.

No one was about to. The night was dark, the water idle. She fumed for a while, then simmered. But the setting was too peaceful to sustain ill will, and in time she calmed. When the call of the loon came, she thought of Celia—dear Celia, who had loved her the way a mother was supposed to love a child. Had it not been for Celia, Lily might have gone on believing that she was unlovable.

That was what Maida had taught her. At least, that was what Lily had taken from Maida's frustration with her. Father Fran had said it wasn't so. He had said that mothers always loved their children but circumstance sometimes prevented its expression. All Lily knew was that the frustration was constant. Lily couldn't do anything right. George had been more supportive, but he picked and chose his fights. He insisted that Maida let Lily sing at the general store because he saw that as a larger issue. Typically male, he didn't see the smaller emotional needs that a growing girl had, needs that were going unfulfilled.

Celia had filled the void. She had given Lily the self-confidence that not even the applause of the most appreciative audience could give. She had taught Lily to go after her dreams.

What were Lily's dreams now, sitting out in the dark of the lake, with the air chilled, the water barely moving against the rocky shore, and the primal call of a loon echoing through the night?

She wanted her life back—work, freedom, privacy.

The dream was more vivid than ever when Lily awoke Sunday morning. Tamping down the urgency she felt,
she waited until nine, then did the unthinkable and called John Kipling. He knew she was there, knew the situation, knew the media. He had also invited her to call, she reasoned. Besides, given how extensively she had been used by the media, she saw no harm using John in this very small way.

“It's Lily. I was wondering if you've seen the morning paper.”

“Just picked it up.”

“Is there anything?”

“A small blurb on the front page,” he said. “Hold on. I'll check inside.”

While the rustle of newsprint came over the line, she stood at the lake window with Celia's shawl wrapped around her and a tight grip on the phone. It seemed forever before his voice came again. It was preceded by a sigh.

“Okay. Not too bad. The front page has a quick recap of the week's events. Most of what's inside has to do with other people.”

“What other people?”

“History.”

“History?”

“Sex scandals.”

Her stomach turned. “What do you mmm-ean?”

“They're talking about prominent people who've had highly publicized affairs, but this is good, I think. If they're moving away from you, it means they've run out of things to say.”

Lily didn't see it quite so benignly. “But they're grouping me with those people!”

“Yeah, but anyone with half a brain knows the situations aren't the same. There's no comparison between Cardinal Rossetti and a philandering president caught with his hand in the cookie jar, or a high-level diplomat caught in bed with a spy, or a Hollywood icon who can't keep his fly zipped.”

“Maybe the people reading that don't
hh-have
half a brain.”

“People are usually smarter than we give them credit for,” John said in a calmer voice. It might even have been reassuring, if he hadn't been part of the media. Media knew how to manipulate. Lily had learned that firsthand. “Yes, it's offensive digging into the past for cases like this. And yes, there's the implication that those cases are like this one. But the comparison will backfire. People will read this and see that the allegations against you and the Cardinal are flimsy, compared to these.”

“The problem,” Lily argued, catching in a shallow breath, “is that comparisons have an effect if they're mmm-ade often enough. People will forget the details of the allegations against me. They'll forget they're flimsy. The thing will take on greater weight.”

“Then you need to fight back.”

“How?”
she cried.

After a pause, he said, “One way is through the courts. The newspapers will hear that.”

She bowed her head, shut her eyes, pressed a fist to her temple. “So will the rest of the world. I hh-have to go,” she whispered and ended the call.

Lily spent much of Sunday detesting the helplessness she felt. She reconsidered taking legal action, even envisioned a triumphant scene outside a courtroom after a jury had ruled in her favor. The vision included total vindication, with the kind of megasettlement that would make the media think twice before again recklessly ruining people's lives. She pictured a victorious return to Boston that included the Winchester School headmaster being fired for caving in to the media frenzy and the owner of the Essex Club begging, just begging her to return to work. She imagined Terry Sullivan losing his job, Paul Rizzo crashing his motorcycle, and Justin Barr being run out of town.

Inevitably, reality returned the minute she thought of the emotional price of taking the case to court. Things would get worse before they got better. She wasn't ready to sign on for that.

What else to do? Saturday morning, John had said he had ammo. He hadn't mentioned it again on Sunday, but she may have hung up too soon. She wondered what his
ammo was, whether she could trust him to share it, whether he would turn right around and use her the way Terry Sullivan had.

Issues of trust notwithstanding, she knew that John saw the papers each morning. In the absence of television and radio at the cottage, fearful of calling Boston and risking having the call traced to Poppy's number, and loath to call Maida, she bit the bullet and phoned John again first thing Monday morning.

“You're my link to the outside world,” she said in an attempt at levity. “What's out there today?”

“Nothing on the front page,” John replied. “The story is on page five. The Vatican cleared the Cardinal of suspicion and condemned the irresponsibility of the paper. The
Post
countered by issuing an apology to the Cardinal.”

Hope came so quickly that Lily could hardly breathe. “They admitted the story was wrong?”

“No. But they apologized to the Cardinal.” His statement hung in the air.

“Yes?” Lily asked. There had to be more.

“That's it. It was a small piece.”

Her hopes wavered. “Was I mentioned?”

“Only at the very beginning.”

Uneasy now, she swallowed. “Would you read it to mm-me, please?”

In a level voice, John read: “ ‘After conducting its own inquiry, the Vatican has announced that newly named Cardinal Francis Rossetti has been cleared of all allegations that he had an improper relationship with
nightclub singer Lily Blake. The Vatican inquiry involved extensive interviews with personnel closest to the Cardinal, as well as with the Cardinal himself. A statement issued from Rome last night cited a “total absence of evidence to suggest that any of the allegations made in the past week contain even an iota of truth.” The statement went on to condemn the atmosphere of “carnival journalism” that exists in this country today and that threatens “irreparable harm even to men of the impeccable character of Cardinal Rossetti.” ' ”

Lily held her breath, waiting.

“More?” John asked.

“Please.”

“ ‘A spokesman for the Archdiocese of Boston praised the speed and thoroughness of the Vatican investigation. “This timely action clears the way for Cardinal Rossetti to immediately resume his work with the poor, the troubled, and the needy of the archdiocese,” he said.' ”

John paused.

Lily waited.

“ ‘When reached by the
Post
,' ” he read on, “ ‘the Cardinal reiterated that thought. “There is precious work to be done,” he said. “It would have been unfortunate for that work to suffer because of spurious charges and irresponsible reporting.” ' ”

Again John paused.

“Is that
it?”
Lily asked.

“One more sentence. ‘The
Post
has issued a formal apology to the Cardinal and to the archdiocese.' ”

Lily waited for him to tack on a final phrase. When the silence dragged on, her dismay grew. “That's all?”

“Yes.”

“No apology to me?”

“No.”

She was dumbfounded, then irate. “But I'm the one who's suffered most. I'm the one who's out of work. I'm the one whh-who who can't walk around in public without being followed like a cat in heat. I deserve an apology, too. What about exonerating mmm-
me?
” Her jaw was clenched, her heart pounding. She was as angry as she had ever been. “Who wrote that piece?”

“Not Terry,” John answered. “David Hendricks. He's a longtime staff reporter.”

“Terry Sullivan is a coward,” Lily seethed. “What about the other papers?”

“Same thing. Small piece. That's it.”

“Will this be the end?”

“Possibly.”

Through her fury, Lily managed only a quick “Thank you” before disconnecting the call. Then she called Poppy and asked to be put through to Cassie Byrnes.

Like many of its neighbors, Lake Henry had a town-meeting form of government. For two nights every March, the church was filled with residents gathered to vote on issues pertinent to town life in the coming year. Every other year, a moderator was elected. He determined the meeting's agenda and should have been the most powerful person in town.